Art Janitor

not down by the schoolyard but trapped in janitor attire shiny specks revealed beneath his dust he OWNS it! and controls sweeping motions and one more arm circle, still not tired. But cells shift into what Kandinsky couldn't describe in ever so many words and so many COLORS. Puff of breath reaches one arm out once more lurking around minute strength from growing thin moon. HIS boots are waning over dust heavy with monotony HE is reflected by bad photographs the children he cleans up after call art and don't call themselves children but adults even though real experience is doing what he's doing through age and choice thinking what they've thought.